


The Last Ferry to Calais

by kaydeefalls



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Queer Character of Color, Canon Queer Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Introspection, M/M, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Pre-Canon, Queer History, References to Oscar Wilde, the MOST established of relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28296291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: Nicky had not felt that particular flavor of guilt himself in many centuries, nor ever would again, but he recognized it like a blade to the heart. "Oh, Joe," he said softly. "They're all like us."Nicky, Joe, and a very crowded ferry on what should have been an unremarkable evening in April 1895.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 48
Kudos: 350
Collections: The Old Guard Gift Exchange 2020





	The Last Ferry to Calais

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeesKnees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesKnees/gifts).



> For **beesknees** , who requested "Joe x Nicky, preferably something soft". I hope this works!

Spring came reluctantly to England in the year 1895. A cold, misty sort of rain was falling as they descended from the carriage. Nicky grimaced and turned up his collar, for what little that would help. He'd be quite content to leave this miserable island behind for a while, assuming they didn't miss their boat.

As if on cue, Joe tucked his hand into the crook of Nicky's arm, nudging him gently. "We'll be back on the Continent in a few hours," he murmured. " _Inshallah_ , Andy will have a secured a safehouse with real walls and a roof this time."

"If she tries to put us in that old mine, I will sell her most valuable antique to buy us a hotel suite in Paris instead."

Joe barked out a laugh. "Maybe we should pick a few pockets on the ferry, just to be on the safe side."

"The late steamer out of Dover in midweek?" Nicky gave him a wry smile. "That will be slim pickings indeed."

Which was partly why they'd chosen it, of course. Their last job had gotten a little too hot, and Joe and Nicky had gone to ground for nearly a month before deciding they could chance the crossing to rejoin Andy and Booker in France.

Between the mist and the evening darkness, Nicky could barely even make out the looming shapes of Dover's famous white cliffs as they made their way down to the dock. Perhaps that was why it took him so long to notice.

"Not so slim tonight, apparently," Joe said under his breath as they approached the throng of passengers waiting to board the Calais ferry. "What's the sudden rush?"

Nicky did his best to ignore the twist his stomach gave at the sight. "Well, I suppose there's anonymity in a crowd. Unless you'd rather turn back?"

"No," Joe said grimly. "I'm not losing another day to this. Whatever's going on here, it's nothing to do with us."

On the plus side, they certainly blended in. Nearly everyone in the queue was male, and dressed much as they were, well-attired and cloaked in deference to the weather. Men of leisure, Booker would scoff. There was an anxious buzz to the crowd, though each man seemed to be traveling more or less alone. Something felt off; Nicky couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Excuse me," he called to a passing crewman. He leaned into his accent a little, the picture of a confused tourist. "Has something happened? I was not expecting such a crush."

The crewman rolled his eyes. "Sure, and you didn't see the papers, either."

At least it was a clue. While Joe held their place in the queue, Nicky ducked away to where a boy in a sodden cap sold the evening papers, then quickly tucked it into his coat to keep it from soaking through. They would have a look on the boat.

Somehow, the crew managed to cram everyone aboard, though Nicky thought the ferry might have set off rather later than scheduled. The interior was thronged and unpleasantly stuffy. Exchanging a shrug, he and Joe found a place on the deck instead.

"I think the rain is stopping," Joe said optimistically, tilting his face up to the dark skies. "Though I honestly don't mind it anymore. At least you can breathe out here."

Nicky hummed agreement, watching the white cliffs disappear behind them, like ghosts in the mist. The sea air tasted sharp with salt. Glancing around, he ascertained that no one in particular was paying them any mind, so he allowed himself to lean back into Joe's warmth, just a little. Joe's gloved hand caught at his hip, holding on loosely.

"The paper?" he murmured, breath tickling at Nicky's ear.

At first, Nicky couldn't figure out what to look for. He was used to scanning the news for major developments, both locally and internationally; some new crisis, perhaps? But usually whole families would be fleeing together, if that were the case. Maybe there was a simpler explanation. Some business exposition in Paris that week, something trivial like that.

He must have skimmed the headline three or four times before it occurred to him to read further, and then—what was the expression?—the penny dropped.

Looking back at the other passengers on deck with them, he began to see them more clearly. Men of all ages and physical appearances, outwardly sharing only a certain degree of wealth or breeding, but bound together in a far subtler fashion. The anxiety in their miens, the way their eyes shifted away from one another, no one willing to remark or be remarked upon. A certain _shame_. Nicky had not felt that particular flavor of guilt himself in many centuries, nor ever would again, but he recognized it like a blade to the heart.

"Oh, Joe," he said softly. "They're all like _us_."

Joe glanced down at the paper in his hands, and unlike Nicky, he caught it at once. But of course he did: Nicky only knew the name in the headline at all because it belonged to one of Joe's favorite writers. One look was enough; Nicky tucked the paper back into his coat, mindful of the wet. Then he leaned back more firmly against Joe's chest and deliberately caught hold of the hand on his waist, lacing their fingers together.

After a few long minutes, Joe exhaled, a shuddering sigh, and briefly pressed his face into the back of Nicky's head. "For every great stride forward civilization makes," he muttered, the words muffled into Nicky's neck, "I sometimes think they must take a corresponding step backward."

Nicky turned in the curve of his arms. Of all times, of all places, right here and now he could not be brought to care what anyone else might see. "They will catch up with us eventually, love," he said with absolute certainty, rubbing his nose against Joe's. "We can afford to wait."

"But can _they_?" Joe asked, and he was referring to the men on this ferry and all those left behind, those without the means or foresight to make good an escape that might or might not be necessary. Nicky had no answer to that except the one he always had: his body against Joe's, grounding them both with a touch, with a kiss. Joe sighed into his mouth, holding him there just for the space of a few heartbeats. Even when the kiss ended, they lingered with foreheads pressed together, sharing breath.

When Nicky could finally bring himself to pull away, he could see one of the other passengers watching them, a handsome older gentleman in a silk cravat. Tears stood in his eyes. After a moment, Nicky tipped his head to him, and the gentleman returned the gesture.

The journey across the Channel was tedious and cold, the rain lightening to a drizzle without ever quite stopping, but they remained at the railing the whole while, sharing warmth.

At Calais, it was easy enough to spot Booker waiting with a pair of horses. His eyes widened as he marked the volume of passengers disembarking.

"What the hell?" he demanded. "I thought you were keeping a low profile; where's the fancy party?"

Joe snorted. "No, just bad timing on our part. Oscar Wilde was arrested this evening."

Wilde was one of the few contemporary authors Booker and Joe both enjoyed unreservedly, albeit for different reasons. Joe appreciated the cleverness of his wordplay, his particular turns of phrase; Booker liked the acidic bite of his satire. "Finally pissed off the wrong so-and-so, did he? What's that have to do with— "

Nicky passed him the newspaper, a little creased and damp now, but still salvageable. "Here, read it if you like. He's being charged with gross indecency."

Such an sordid little phrase for something Nicky had never found ugly at all. Even in his worst days, his earliest days, he could never have described what passed between him and Yusuf as anything but astonishing. There was so much beauty in how they loved, in all the forms it could take, from the simplest look to the most intimate touch. 

Booker cursed fluently in a mixture of French and Occitan, ending with an emphatic "Fucking _English_ ," which Nicky did think summed it up quite nicely.

They rode through the French countryside for another hour, Nicky and Joe doubling up on the spare horse with Joe's arms wrapped firmly around Nicky's waist. At least it was no longer raining here, though it wasn't much warmer, either. For a blessing, the farmhouse Andy found for them did indeed have four sturdy walls and a well-thatched roof, and she already had a fire blazing in the hearth when they arrived. She greeted them both with brisk hugs and a quick check-in, then shooed them off to sleep.

Their pallet was tucked into a corner of the house's one shared room. Nicky fussed over it, making sure they had enough blankets to ward off the chill that had long since seeped into his bones, listening vaguely to Andy and Booker murmuring together from the other end of the room. Joe dropped down onto the pallet with a sigh, having already shucked off his damp outerwear in exchange for dry underclothes from their shared bag. After a quick minute with a washbasin to scrub the lingering rime of sea salt from his face and hands, Nicky followed suit and joined him, curling up with his back to Joe's chest.

Despite the lateness of the hour and their long evening's journey, a restless energy still thrummed under Nicky's skin. He couldn't quite get comfortable on the lumpy pallet. His eyes burned a little when he tried to squeeze them shut, like there was some grit in them.

"Nicolò." Joe's hand on his hip, tugging gently but insistently. "Come here, won't you?"

Nicky rolled over with an apology for his twitchiness already on his lips, but it fell away upon seeing Joe's beloved face. Those expressive brows were drawn together, stark lines etched down to the corners of his mouth, his cheekbones more than usually prominent. The hollowness in his dark eyes caught at Nicky's heart and twisted there. Nicky cupped his face in his hands, thumbing at his cheeks as though he might smooth those creases away along with the hurt that caused them. "Oh, Yusuf."

Joe rested his forehead against Nicky's with a sigh. "I know it's nothing new. But sometimes it just...catches me by surprise, all over again. The _fear_ they all felt, on that ferry, that their love could be warped against them."

"I know," Nicky murmured, kissing him gently. When Joe was slow to respond, still lost within his own thoughts, he began placing soft, deliberate kisses to each cheek, then trailed down along the line of his beard. He lingered on Joe's neck for a little while, mapping it out thoroughly with his lips and tongue, enjoying the low, needy sounds his attentions elicited. By the time Nicky kissed his careful, methodical way back to Joe's mouth, Joe's lips were already parted, waiting for him. This time they both sank into it gratefully. Joe ran his hands up along Nicky's sides, coming to clutch at his shoulders, and Nicky tangled their legs together beneath the rough blankets and just kept kissing him.

Sometimes, it seemed as if there was so little any of them could do to actually drive forward any meaningful change. The world was too large, its problems too diverse; the whole of it could simply feel insurmountable. Nicky didn't know how to undo this stupid English law, or any of its counterparts in other nations; he could not return to the ferry and promise any of the frightened men aboard that it would be all right in the end. 

But he could put a little more love into the world, do everything possible to lighten his husband's soul tonight and tomorrow and the day after that. To remind him that it was still so, so worth it, so that together they could find the strength to keep fighting.

(Years afterward, they will read Wilde's later works and weep over them: _yet each man kills the thing he loves_ —"Well," Nicky will say wryly, "he certainly got it right in our case," just to bring a little laughter back into Joe's eyes.)

Joe held him close and whispered clever words of love into his skin all night, the loveliest poetry Nicky had ever known, and somehow, this would be enough for both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> "On the day Oscar Wilde was arrested, six hundred gentlemen left England for the continent on a night when usually sixty people traveled. Every train to Dover was crowded, every steamer to Calais thronged with members from the aristocratic and leisured classes." -Moises Kaufman, _Gross Indecency_
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](http://kaydeefalls.tumblr.com), if that's your thing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] The Last Ferry to Calais](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28377741) by [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish)




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